#tp!linkxreader

TP!Link x reader but of @acrossthegalaxyau’s Beast. A lot of this isn’t proof read because my god it’s a long one.

Tw: depictions of gore.

The hand that held his sword was tired. In both a very literal and metaphorical sense. Long ago, he had begged his father to let him hold a blade, to learn to fight. To protect that which was precious to him. Now, with all he longed to protect kept at a healthy arm's length, he wondered when his hands had gotten so tired. When had his wrist become so sore from the burden it held?

To him, his burn out, his loss of drive within the world was an infection of sorts. The title of Hero was a burden that in many ways he wished he wasn’t bestowed. Well most certainly an honour, seeing that which he loved, which he fought so hard to protect, be harmed and disregarded was not a motivation. The responsibility wore at his bones until they cracked and ate at his energy until he passed out, only to be shoved back into him the second he awoke. The title of hero outweighed his own name. No longer was he Link of Ordon, But Link the Hero of Hyrule. He was no more than his deeds. Then the safety he was tasked with bringing to their feet, begging like a dog for any award. In some sense, he was awarded. With titles and land and money and publicity— but none of it mattered. To a hero, perhaps these things were valued. But to Link if Ordon, such prizes were worthless. They were gifts of obligation, not of any true thankfulness or appreciation. And so, he viewed his task as obligation, and their gifts without any thanks or appreciation.

He stood now, a group of lizalfoe in front of him, without much a feeling of fear. Not in such a sense of bravery or courage, but simply the absence of feeling. His sword sunk into flesh with no discernible difference between the monsters. Corpses were Corpses. In the eyes of fate and history, enemy was enemy. There was no concern for where they came from or what lives they might’ve led if he hadn’t come into their lives. It was his obligation to kill. To lay waste the creatures of evil. Four were downed, one last left standing among the bodies of its allies.

Clouds parted from the gibbous moon, letting its silver light steam down. Once upon his past, he would’ve spent such a night by fireside, you cuddled up against his side as some idle story filled your minds. Further back than those memories, you both would’ve snuck out to run along the river. Younger then, the two of you would’ve curled up in some quiet field after dinner and fallen asleep. Within those memories were gifts. The peace of domesticity he could no longer afford. Love of another which he now can no longer, lest you be ripped from him too. Contentment, something he can now only find within his memory. He could read between the lines of his life and surround himself with yes men, convincing himself its love, but contentment cannot be fabricated. It is a measurement only knowable by oneself, their enjoyment of simply being alive. And it was in the cold days that followed the abstractness of his journey that he is unhappy with the idea of simply being alive anymore.

Pain struck, washing over his network of nerves, his sword sinking into the wet dirt. Gnawing fangs latching to his flesh. He was only awake then long enough to see an arrow pierce the vile thing. He was only conscious long enough to scold himself— this is what comes of closeness. Pain. Suffering. Loss.

Staring down at the mixture of splintered bones and ripped skin didn’t affect you as much as it should’ve, but goddess knows how many hours into your nights at the ward meant you couldn’t scrounge up any more energy to be panicked. Night bleeding into cold night sapped out the care and individuality of each patient down to a cot number. The whole process got methodical over time— healing people. There wasn’t much of a difference within the bodies after enough time. It didn’t matter to you whether the patient was alive or dead, biologically a man or woman, or whatever arbitrary things society dubbed someone as ‘different’. Red potions and fairies worked their magic all the same on Zora as they did with Goron, so on and so forth. A needle pierced flesh no different from a child than it did an adult or elderly. Sure, there were minor differences in anatomy and function, different needs of each individual, but they were all just people in the end. It didn’t feel different to operate on one than it did another.

But there was something you found odd in the way you felt when it came to healing Link. All things considered, he wasn’t much different from any normal hylian. A little on the lean side, sure, but nothing apparently extraordinary at a first glance. Of course, with a little more information readily accessible, you knew a few quirks. Strong as the hero was foretold to be, he was littered with scars. A few on his back from fighting, the worst from the night the village was destroyed by the wakes of twilight. A nicked lip he’d received from a scuffle with a drunk man who lunged at you. A few lining the inside of his arm, which he didn’t need to define and nor did you force him. A long slice in his forearm from when he was trenching you how to shoot a bow. A small scar on the inside of his ankle from when he fell in the river when you’d both snuck out in the dead of night, his young body unable to balance on unsteady feet. Each one you’d bandaged and stitched and monitored. Each wound of his recklessness was eased by your hand.

Well, now you supposed, it wasn’t each. Now the man in question lay hardly living and hardly dead on your makeshift operation table, it seemed there was yet more to uncover when it came to Link. You were met with a familiar hollow burn beneath your ribs, seeing the angry red gash on his left wrist. Not even that he’d gotten such a wound in the first place, but with your offer to heal the wound being met with stiff silence. It would’ve been easy. Some gauze and disinfectant. It wasn’t even deep enough to warrant stitches. It was, however, deep enough to warrant infection in its neglect. Sure, To this alone you would’ve been only slightly frustrated. But seeing the flesh falling from bone on the right half of his abdomen was enough to convince you that said negligence happened to be enough to affect his ability of wielding his blade.

The sun was rising by the time you were done. Nearly eight hours it had taken to close all his wounds. Another spent on treating his infection. Changing his bandages over for the second time that… evening? night? You decided to let yourself question the possibly most apparent difference of your Link since you’d last been aloud to treat him. There was something embedded in his chest. About a palms length from his collarbone, embedded in his sternum was… something. And from it sprang magic. It discoloured his skin to a black geometric patch with teal lines crawling over his chest. It hummed slightly, in tune with his heart, and that hollow feeling rested within you again. It was more corrosive this time, eating away at you in a way you couldn’t begin to express. It burned within whatever soft place it settled in —your heart most likely— and for the first time that night you felt something other than bitter isolation. You believed it to be jealousy in one of its many wicked forms.

The thing with dead bodies was you knew from their lack of pulse and cold skin that there was no soul to connect with. There was no one there. Those who were alive provided a sense of warmth. Physically and emotionally. Once, Link too was the same. He was warmth. Your very own sun. He’d make sure you were safe and drag you up from the depths of whatever dark hole you’d crawled into with no expectation of a return. Now, Link was more akin to the former. He regarded you with unresponsiveness. Cold in every way but literal. You gave him space when he asked for it upon his return. You don’t question when he stopped showing up to events. You tried not to take it personally when he stopped talking to you. You tried to convince yourself he hadn’t walked out of your life without a second glance. You tried— you really did. And for a while it worked. You managed to fool yourself that he didn’t mean to, or that he’d be coming back. And maybe that’s the cruellest part, that you wholeheartedly believed your own lies. But looking down on the wounds he’s collected, you can’t help but be hit with the realisation that he doesn't want you anymore. He had seen the world outside of what Ordon had to offer. Through his heroism he’s travelled the highs and lows of Hyrule, met all its variations of people and became their Hero. A person of their creations. And with it, with their creation, you weren’t dubbed a necessary piece of him anymore. You weren’t the only one that loved him anymore. So how foolish could you be to assume that he was still yours?

Your trance was broken by his eyes fluttering as the sunlight streamed in. He blinked a few times before sitting up, you didn’t have the heart to usher him into laying back down with soft mutters. His slitted pupils adjusted to the light, growing thin and sharp as they met your own. His mouth fell slightly agape seeing you framed by the sunlight, an angel sent to him, surely. Your hands felt stiff as you grabbed his neatly folded clothes and other items, setting them on his lap.

“Your- Your service total is 300 rupees. Feel free to pay at the front or discuss other financing options.” Your voice shook as your routine line spilled from your lips. Your heart shook from the gasp that came from him, his weak lungs drawing in a cold, shuttered breath.